


Seasons

by mcicioni



Category: Rawhide - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 13:31:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11014440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: Rowdy Yates gets married. Gil Favor deals with it.





	Seasons

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written about twenty years ago. It is definitely an a/u story, where a number of things happen instead of the final seasons of the show. Many thanks to Kirstie, Cinzia and Sal for their help.
> 
> Willie Carst and her mother appear in the episode "Incident of the Night Horse".

_At the end of a drive most drovers head for the nearest bathhouse, saloon, and cathouse – not necessarily in that order – with their pay burnin’ a hole in their pockets. A few remember they got families somewhere, and take off to see if their kin can remember what they look like. And one or two take big decisions. For them, the end of a drive is a new beginnin’. And for me, the end of a drive is just a breathin’ space until the beginnin’ of the next one. I’m Gil Favor, trail boss._

“Dearly beloved.”

The minister smiled at the oddly-assorted congregation and they promptly smiled back, all twenty-three of them: bride, groom, eighteen drovers standing stiffly in the newly-bought shirts and pants which still smelled of store mothballs; the bride’s mother, majestic in the rustling skirts and necklaces which revealed her Gypsy origin; the short bewhiskered man standing proudly by the bride, and the tall dark-haired man standing confidently beside the groom.

“We are gathered here today in the sight of God and these people to witness the joining of this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”

... They were almost, but not quite, the words of the leader of that bunch of crazy hillbillies that had tried to force Rowdy into marrying one of their girls as a prelude to stealing the herd. Gil Favor’s lips twitched as he recalled Rowdy’s terrified face, his silent pleading looks to his friends and his boss. 

_“I’ll get married in my own time. My own choosin’.”_

Favor had pretended to go along with it, of course. In order to protect his herd, and his ramrod, in whatever order. And they both had laughed in relief when the drovers had overpowered the hillbillies and sent them on their way, and the girl had gone back to the man she really wanted...

“If anyone knows of any just cause or impediment why this man and this woman may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”

Favor snapped to, with a jump he hoped nobody had noticed. Hold his peace ... That was something he’d never managed to do on any of the many occasions Rowdy had got stuck on a girl that wasn’t right for him. Hard to say which had been the worst. The girl who had been a decoy for an outlaw gang. The convent novice. The owner of the gambling house with the weird Greek name. Probably the one who took the cake had been the wife of the crazy jealous sheriff they’d come across on their first drive – that had been the first time Rowdy had quit, believing, fool that he was, that she was a maiden in distress, waiting to be rescued. 

_“You make me wish I could reach for a hickory rod.”_

_“If you think I need a lesson and you’re the teacher, Mr Favor, you got two good fists, use them.”_

And Favor had dismounted and done just that, and they had beaten the living daylights out of each other, Wishbone and Pete Nolan and the crew standing motionless around them in the moonlit camp, the only sounds those of fists connecting with flesh and bone. Favor had won the fight, but it turned out that his judgement had been just as wrong as Rowdy’s – the woman was not a maiden in distress, but neither was she a calculating tramp. 

He and Rowdy had rejoined the herd after saying good-bye to her. And the soft-brained kid had quit again on the next drive, to protect a madwoman who had been poisoning Indians, and who had nearly killed Pete Nolan as well.

 _“Rowdy, you won’t be able to fool yourself for too long,”_ Favor had warned. 

_“Anyone that comes after her, they’re goin’ to have to get by me.”_

_“Pete dies, we just might have to do that.”_

Pete hadn’t died. The woman had, in Rowdy’s arms, shot by the brother of one of her many victims. And Rowdy and Favor had ridden back to camp in silence, side by side. How many times had they done that? More than he could remember. He’d got used to it, finally convincing himself that things would remain that way, that every girl Rowdy fell for would be a passing fancy, that neither of them would ever settle down with a woman, that they would just keep riding side by side. But then, after all the wrong ones, the right one had come along, by accident: the daredevil tomboy daughter of a man twisted by anger and revenge. Williamina Carst, better known as Willie, was right for Rowdy, because she had his courage and generosity, and a temper to match his, and could ride and shoot as well as any drover, and was used to hardships, and loved the outdoors. And she had wanted Rowdy from the very start, from the moment she had almost decked him with a right hook to his jaw. And he had felt drawn to her too, maybe in spite of that right hook, maybe because of it. 

_“I’ll never forget you.”_

_“I’ll never forget you either.”_

And things had not ended there, but had slowly developed in the following months. From the first letters in the mail bundles Rowdy had raced to collect in various towns along their route ( _“Get off my back, Wishbone, it ain’t nothin’, just a letter from that Carst kid, the one with the ornery father who got kicked to death by that stallion”_ ), to the first time he’d seen Rowdy refuse to go to town with the boys ( _“It’s all right, Mr Favor, I don’t mind nighthawkin’, I’m tryin’ to save up, I got a couple plans”_ ) to the time when Rowdy had got him alone when they were washing before chow, and had looked directly into his eyes, standing straight without fidgeting and without a trace of hesitation ( _“I proposed, Mr Favor, and she said yes, and we’re gettin’ married the day after the drive’s over, and I’d be plumb honoured if you stood by me”_ ).

“Will you, Roderick Daniel Yates, take Williamina Mary Carst to be your lawful wedded wife?”

The drovers jumped and quickly glanced at one another, trying hard to suppress gasps or snickers. Of course Rowdy had never breathed a word to anyone, under any circumstances, about the name his parents had saddled him with. And the men who had, however briefly, met Rowdy’s father in Rio Salado didn’t need to wonder why their former ramrod had never cared to use the name Daniel.

“Will you love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health ...”

 _... In sickness._ The sickest Rowdy ever got – counting bullets, knife wounds, and spills from his horse - was the time he got a high fever at the same time as steers started dropping dead. Favor shuddered slightly, his guts clenching again as they had clenched in knots of fear for three days, his mind reeling once more with the impotence and despair that he had felt beside Rowdy’s burning body. He remembered his desperate ride through the group of armed men who wanted to protect their little town from anthrax, if that was what Rowdy had picked up. And his silent vigil through the night, until the ominous silence outside their windows was broken by the laughter of the townspeople who had learned that Rowdy had chicken pox instead of anthrax, and Rowdy’s soft answering laughter, and his own loud laugh of complete, happy relief.

 _I could have lost him_ , he told himself at the memory, just as he had done every time Rowdy had pulled through after being shot or knifed or thrown or kidnapped or sentenced to hang.

 _He never was yours to lose_. The sudden, new thought stung like a whiplash, the shock of it making his eyes close for a moment. He forced them to re-open, inwardly shaking his head at his stupidity. _You just remember it, and keep your mind on what you’re doin’._

“... so long as you both shall live?”

For a second Rowdy just stood there, speechless and motionless, staring straight ahead. Favor prepared to nudge him, or give him a gentle kick in the shins. But then Roderick Daniel Yates turned to the girl beside him, blushed hard, and grinned, his eyes wide and full of dancing lights.

“Oh yeah. Yes. Yes, sir. I will. I will. I will.”

“Do you, Williamina Mary Carst, take Roderick Daniel Yates to be your lawful wedded husband?”

Willie was not blushing at all. Straight as a sapling, she took Rowdy’s hand and squeezed it once, with all the strength of someone who had been doing a boy’s work since she had been able to ride a horse.

“I will.”

“Who gives this woman?”

Wishbone stepped forward, pride and dignity adding at least six inches to his stature, and took the bride’s hand with gentle firmness. 

“I do.”

Wishbone said the two words slowly and earnestly, and, his job over, stepped back to rejoin the congregation, beaming.

“Please say after me: I, Roderick Daniel Yates, take thee, Williamina Mary Carst ...”

The vows the two kids were making (was that a smirk on both their faces when she promised to obey him?) floated in and out of Favor’s ears. He heard his own voice and Susan’s, just as joyous and confident, repeat those words – how long ago, seventeen, eighteen years? And he had lost her, and most of his illusions about living happily ever after. Now he knew that – even supposing he did find someone who would put up with him – he could no longer belong to one person or one place. Or even wanted to.

“Could I have the ring, please?”

Favor blinked hard, and looked at the book the minister was holding out to him. He thrust a hand into his pocket, found the ring that had been there since he’d got dressed at first light, and carefully placed it on the book. There. He didn’t need to do anything else. Behind him, Wishbone and Joe Scarlett moved apart, and he stepped back between them.

“With this ring I thee wed ...”

Rowdy’s head was bent down, checking that his shaking fingers were doing what they were meant to do. He fumbled and sighed deeply, the other hand attempting to move up to scratch a cheek or to run through his unruly sunstreaked mop. Willie grinned up at him, amused and delighted.

“With my body I thee worship ...”

Favor stood motionless, face impassive, as his chest constricted. Whenever he’d thought of bodies, he’d seen them as something serviceable, to be kept fit and healthy, whose appetites for food, drink, and sex had to be satisfied at regular intervals, and which weren’t to be given a second thought beyond that. And now the words of the service, repeated in Rowdy’s intense drawl, were conjuring up a memory of Rowdy, bare-chested and panting after starting a fight with another drover, leaning heavily against the side of the wagon where Favor had slammed him.

 _“As long as I have you for company, I’ll walk up to the devil himself,”_ he had shouted in response to his boss’s flaring anger. There had been strong feeling in his voice – something other than resentment, maybe. Loyalty, sure. But only that?

_Maybe if I’d let him know ..._

_I couldn’t. Wasn’t sure myself. And it’s a little late now._

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Rowdy drew his wife to him and held her tight against his chest, a little triumphant laugh promptly dying down as his eyes stared into hers and their lips touched. Favor took a couple of deep breaths, squared his shoulders, smiled and stepped in closer, the first to congratulate the newlyweds and to kiss the new Mrs Rowdy Yates.

* * * * * * * * * 

Swaying a little, Gil Favor climbed the steps which led to his first-floor hotel room, opened the door, and, without lighting the lamp, went to stand in front of the open window, shivering a little at the cool night breeze which would be almost freezing come early morning.

It was over. A little foggy, a little blurred at the edges, some images and sounds from the previous hours came back to him. Jim Quince’s triumphant yell, right outside the church door, “Yee-haa! They’ve done it!”, followed by a couple of shots towards the cloudless sky. The reception, everyone proclaiming that the cake – baked by the bride’s mother, and tasting of strange sharp spices – was the best they’d ever eaten, and swapping information about the place Rowdy and Willie were buying, half-way between this town and the next. A small house, with a leaking roof and a barn that was likely to collapse if anyone as much as leaned on it, but with a corral in good condition, and enough land for twenty or twenty-five horses to run. They didn’t have much to start with, but Willie and her mother had something left from the sale of their mustangs after Mr Carst had died. And Favor had helped some, as a wedding present. She knew about horse-trading, he knew about horse-breaking, and neither of them was scared of hard work. They were going to make it.

Favor’s own speech, the jokes at Rowdy’s expense tempered by uncharacteristically generous praise and warm wishes for a future filled with horses and kids. And at the end, Wishbone’s hand had briefly rested on Favor’s back, and he had looked up at his boss, and the eyes under the bushy eyebrows were serious and full of things that could not be spoken, not ever, even between the two of them. Favor had nodded briefly and turned around, and found himself face to face with Mrs Carst.

“It takes courage,” she had said, simply, in her slow, careful English. “Be strong.” And, without wondering how she _saw_ (how had she _seen_ her husband’s death before it happened?) or how she, of all people, could understand and accept, he had nodded thanks to her too.

A little later he and Rowdy and Willie had been standing beside the saddled horses, Rowdy’s sorrel and Willie’s compact, strong-legged bay. Bedrolls and saddlebags had already been secured, all the preparation Mr and Mrs Yates needed for their honeymoon, a week-long ride in the mountains, with plans to hike and fish and shoot and swim and sleep under the stars. Willie had changed back into her habitual denim pants and plain man’s jacket, and looked just a little older than Favor’s two girls in distant Philadelphia. Favor had tousled her hair and whispered “Be happy” as he hugged her hard. Then he and Rowdy had faced each other and all the people around them had ceased to exist.

“So.”

“So.”

Favor had extended a hand and grabbed Rowdy’s in a bruising shake. Rowdy had pulled hard, clumsy and urgent, and Favor had found himself crushed against Rowdy’s chest, breathing in soap and sweat, and had put his arms around Rowdy’s shoulders, and for a second or two had stopped thinking, and had just _felt_. And then he had released Rowdy and for the last time, softly and hoarsely, had said the words he’d so often shouted at him, laughing, impatiently, angrily, in the years they had ridden together.

“Get movin’.”

Rowdy had quickly swallowed three or four times and had swung into his saddle. Already mounted up, grinning at him, Willie had wheeled her horse around, urged it into a gallop, and raced down Main Street. Rowdy had loosened his reins, preparing to gallop off in hot pursuit. And at the last moment he had turned around and looked straight at Favor once more, and his lips had silently shaped the words “Take care of yourself”. And then the sorrel’s hooves had raised clouds of dust as they pounded down the street and out of sight.

Favor leaned against the window frame and took a few long, deep breaths. The gaping hole inside him would fill, just like any other wound that didn’t kill you. And feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t help him getting his tasks sorted out and taken care of. He frowned slightly, making a mental list for the following day. Find Wishbone and decide on supplies together. Find Quince, sit him down, and have a talk with him. He’d be a good ramrod. Good with cattle. Reliable, now that he’d stopped drinking. Did what he was told. Didn’t pick up widows, orphans, fish-breeders, preachers, runaway wives, pregnant women, and just blink and grin when it was pointed out to him that the herd couldn’t be slowed down ...

_Enough._

And after he’d talked with Quince, the two of them would have to go and find a couple of new men, one to replace Quince at flank, and one, maybe two more, to ride drag. And then he’d go to the Cattlemen’s Association and finish signing all the papers, and ask if new maps had been drawn that he wasn’t aware of, and also check the prices of flour and sugar to make sure that Wishbone wouldn’t get any raw deals from the storekeepers, and ...

But that was tomorrow. Tonight, the tightness in his chest loosened and the cold place deep in his guts warmed by whisky, he would allow himself one indulgence. Never to be repeated - even just this once would be dangerous enough. Tomorrow he’d step back into his chaps and work clothes, and keep his feet firmly planted on the ground, as usual.

Tonight ...

In the dark he slowly stripped, stretched out between the sheets, and closed his eyes, to shut out the moonlight and the street outside and the empty space around his bed. He waited, motionless, until he could feel another presence beside him, a long-limbed body smelling of cattle and grass and sweat, an unruly mop of hair that badly needed cutting. They put their arms around each other and embraced, as hard as they had a few hours earlier beside the saddled horses. Then long-fingered hands gently but firmly pushed Favor backwards onto the mattress, and full dry lips moved down Favor’s body, grazing among chest hair, biting at a nipple, sliding down to suck playfully at his navel, to nuzzle at his bush. 

Groaning, Favor wrapped his hand around his hardening flesh, and a fingertip flicking around the slit was a tongue, wet and silky, and the tunnel of his fingers now was a hungry and thirsty mouth taking him in, tightening around him, sucking with urgent passion. Favor slid fully into the mouth, pushing against tongue and palate, then thrusting harder and deeper, pushing all of himself into Rowdy, at once taking and giving, feeling his control dissolve with each thrust, with each squeeze. He bit his lip and spasmed in silence, fierce hot desperate pulses flowing into Rowdy’s throat, _take this, take me, take it all._

And it was over, the long-limbed body had vanished with the final spurt, and Favor’s seed was drying on his fingers and the sheets, and the aftermath was not blinding despair, just emptiness and resignation, and some blurred hope for courage. He looked around the bare walls of the empty moonlit room and closed his eyes again, to seek some rest. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

The next morning, as Favor stepped out of the hotel, the air was smelling of freshly-laundered sheets, and the sky between the roofs of the houses was clear, with just a few shreds of white and pink on the horizon. 

Favor looked up towards the trees at the end of Main Street, where the town ended. The first dabs of russet and gold were beginning to appear among the foliage, and the sunlight was shimmering on the leaves stirred by a faint breeze. That same breeze would become scorching heat in the middle of the day, and a frost at night; the coming drive, the last one of the year, would go on anyway, among the dangers as well as the beauty of early fall.

_To everything there is a season ..._

He blinked at the half-forgotten verse, and shuddered as he recalled from whom and where he’d last heard it. Susan’s minister, standing beside him by the grave that had been dug in his absence. _A time to be born, a time to die, a time to love ..._

_A time to mourn._

This time, he would mourn not what had been and had disappeared all too quickly, but what had never been and never would be. While keeping busy, while seeing to the steers and the men and the horses and the supplies, he needed to let himself feel the emptiness and dryness, and wait for that season to pass before a new one could begin. What the new one would contain, he couldn’t and wouldn’t guess.

* * * * * * * * * * * 

“Head ‘em up! Move ‘em out!”

The new herd was starting to move, two thousand eight hundred and forty-three recalcitrant head pushed along by twenty-one determined men, across Texas and Oklahoma and most of Missouri to Sedalia. 

Gil Favor watched the herd plod past him, nodding approval as it slowly picked up speed, the flank riders already moving out to intercept strays and push them back. Somewhat self-consciously, Jim Quince was darting from one position to another, checking that every man was where he should be and knew what he was doing. The chuckwagon trundled past, moving parallel to the herd, just far enough not to get into the path of the clouds of dust raised by almost twelve thousand hooves. Wishbone looked at Favor once, unsmiling, and raised his hand in an uncharacteristically silent wave. Favor nodded, pushed his hat firmly down, and galloped towards the point, the place where he, alone, surveyed the terrain and decided how to move.

Brush-covered hills lay ahead, right outside the town. A new herd wasn’t going to be happy to be pushed through brush. The drovers weren’t going to be all that happy either. But further ahead there were miles of easy plain, with streams where the steers could drink, and sweet grass which would make them fat and full of energy.

_To everything there is a season ..._

Today would be a good day to fix a leaking roof and maybe figure out a way of propping up a shaky barn. And new horses had to be at least half-broken before winter. And fences had to be built or reinforced. And ... _Never mind._ Rowdy would cope, with Willie beside him. 

The pain of mourning was something that had to be lived with, like the seasons.

Favor nudged his horse and moved on, his eyes fixed into the distance ahead.


End file.
